The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

Every Thursday for the past four and a half years, I leave work two hours early, travel by train to Queens where my sister, Janet, picks me up at the subway station, and we drive out to visit our dad in a nursing home on Long Island. We always get stuck for a while in rush hour traffic amidst the hordes of people who are insane enough to drive daily to jobs in Manhattan. It is sometimes a little difficult to muster enthusiasm, but it’s worth it to see Dad’s face light up when we arrive.

We get to the Home around 6:00pm, just as he’s finishing dinner and whisk him away in his wheelchair to spend an hour chatting; working on a crossword puzzle; and checking his hearing aids for batteries and his nails for grooming. And we always bring him a cup of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, which he eats methodically and with great enjoyment, offering each of us a taste in turn. “We haven’t eaten dinner yet, Pop,” I always say and he nods, perhaps vaguely recalling that I’d said the same thing earlier in the week when we’d visited on Monday and gone through the same routine.

After we’ve bidden Dad goodnight, we get in the car and decide what we want for dinner, which we have in Janet’s apartment where I spend the night. Last Thursday was a (not very amusing) comedy of errors from the moment we pulled out of the Home’s parking lot. We had earlier decided against taking out Asian-fusion ribs and a salad with lychee nuts and candied walnuts from a restaurant a couple of blocks from the Home, because we’d had that the week before. We thought we might try a restaurant, run by Russian Jews, that a friend (who lives not far from Janet) had mentioned liking. Next to it was a new Japanese restaurant we had also considered as an alternative if the first place didn’t appeal.

We entered the surprisingly shabby, dimly lit Russian joint to find it uninhabited except for a woman behind the front counter and a bored-looking waiter seated at the first table. Inside the high glass counter we could see a row of small kebobs of raw chicken, beef, and lamb and another shelf of metal tubs containing pickled cabbage died a deep purple from beet juice; small limp Israeli cucumber pickles which I knew came in tin cans; and grayish coleslaw, none of which looked the least appealing. A sign indicated that French fries were available in small, medium, or large portions. Janet and I conferred about which two proteins to order, feeling unsure about the whole thing in general. “Let’s not get the chicken because I like the way you make them,” Janet said. “Can the beef and lamb be ordered rare?” I asked the woman. “The beef, yes, but lamb cannot be served anything but well done,” she answered. I looked over at my sister, who was warily eyeing the selection of sad-looking pickles, and we smiled politely and headed for the door.

The Japanese restaurant next door had a huge Grand Opening sign in the window and a posting of the extensive menu. There was not a soul inside with the exception of the wait staff. Surprisingly, the prices were astronomical, even higher than in Manhattan, and though we would’ve liked to support a new venture, we agreed we didn’t want to order raw fish from a place that looked like it had no turnover.

“Do you want to drive to get those great calzones in Forest Hills?” Janet asked. By this time we were both starving, and I was feeling not just a little irritable. “It’s too far away, and we won’t have ordered them in advance and so will have to wait for them to be baked,” I said. Janet looked dejected, and we both sighed deeply. “It would be nice to eat dinner before dawn,” I was thinking to myself.

“Let’s have the Columbian rotisserie chicken, sweet plantains and fried yucca from around the corner,” I offered. “Great,” Janet exclaimed, slipping her arm into mine. We love this small take-out shop and sometimes stop in on our way home from visiting Dad, place our order, and then return home to sip cocktails and await its arrival from a sweet, young delivery guy. “Is it possible to have just dark meat chicken?” I asked when we were face to face with the counterman. “We’re out of chicken!” he announced brightly. I looked at Janet in disbelief. By this time it was after 8:00 p.m., and I was crazed with frustration and a gnawing gut. Plus, a stiff drink was beginning to sound especially good.

Back in the car I grabbed Janet’s cell phone and called a reliably good Japanese restaurant from which we often order delivery. “I have to warn you that we’re short of delivery men tonight, and we’re badly backed up,” the receptionist informed me when I began to order. “It will be at least a one hour wait,” she added. “Give me a minute,” I said. I informed Janet of the news. She shook her head. I thanked the voice on the other end of the line and hung up. I was beside myself. “What now?” I inquired. “Let’s just drive up the boulevard to the Israeli Grill and you’ll get us a falafel platter to go,” she suggested. Crunchy falafel balls wrapped in soft, chewy homemade bread (that beats pita anytime) called laffa, crunchy French fries, and a variety of really good pickled vegetables suddenly sounded fantastic.

Janet dropped me off and parked by the curb to wait. I was surprised to find the restaurant’s back room bustling and a long line of customers waiting for take-out up front. My heart sunk, but we had nothing to eat at home, and I had no choice but to place my order and get on the queue. I was given a small plastic container to fill with pickled cucumbers, carrots, cumin-scented cabbage, peppers, and such. Back in line, I rolled my eyes as one customer rudely barked directions at the guy furiously compiling his order. “More hot sauce!” he commanded first, then “Make the fries very well done!” followed by “Add more tahini sauce.” No please, thank you, or tip dropped into the glass jar on the counter directly in front of his eyes.

There were only two guys preparing the food for the entire restaurant; one was working the back room and the other handled the take-out customers. Though I was concerned that Janet was in the car either fuming, or more likely crying, I was in awe of the speed and efficiency with which the cooks worked. Finally, it was my turn. Offered two side dishes, I opted for a fresh salad of finely chopped cucumber and tomato and an order of French fries. I filled a few tiny cups with the tahini sauce that sat atop the counter and made sure the lids were on tight. Into the bag they went with the pickled veggies, loffa, and falafel platter, which was plated in a compartmentalized container that included the salad and fries.

“I’m so sorry!” Janet and I said simultaneously as I hopped into the front seat. She’d rightly assumed the line was long, and I wanted to apologize for keeping her waiting. We arrived home famished and exhausted as the clock struck 9:30 p.m. Janet plopped onto the couch in the living room. “Let’s just eat in here,” she proposed. I poured her a bourbon and myself a scotch. I opened the tin-foil packet in which the laffa bread was wrapped and found it nearly cold and totally tough. The fries, too, were no longer hot and had become flaccid. And the falafel balls had either been overcooked or had simply hardened as they cooled. The thought of preheating the oven, then reheating the bread, fries, and falafel seemed futile.

I laid everything out on the coffee table in front of the couch and we dug in. “Let’s try not to eat too fast,” I suggested, remembering that for some reason Israeli food often gave Janet indigestion. Each component of the meal was a disappointment, but we plodded through. After awhile I noticed Janet bending over at the waist and holding her stomach with one hand. She was wincing. “Heartburn,” she muttered. The meal wound down with my sister twisted in pain and bent in half, her head only an inch from the edge of the coffee table. I looked at her sympathetically. “At least we finished eating before dawn,” she said.

Chicken Kabobs with Moroccan Spices

Serves 2

I serve these flavorful chunks of chicken along with grilled cherry tomatoes on a bed of baby arugula dressed with extra-virgin olive oil, fresh lemon juice, salt and pepper. An alternative is to serve them on rice or couscous. The spice sumac is used in Middle Eastern cooking and has a fruity-tart, lemony flavor. Syrian Aleppo pepper has a moderate heat level with some fruitiness and mild, cumin-like undertones.

1 pound boneless chicken breasts

¼ cup olive oil

1 ½ teaspoons ras-el-hanout spice blend (see recipe below)

½ teaspoon sumac (optional)

¼ teaspoon Syrian Aleppo pepper (or ground chili pepper)

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

¼ teaspoon kosher salt

2 – 3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro

Lemon wedges for serving

Cut the chicken breasts into 1”-cubes. You should have about 20 pieces. In a small bowl, blend the olive oil, spices, lemon juice and salt. Place the chicken cubes in a shallow bowl and pour the marinade over them. Refrigerate for at least one hour, and up to four. When ready to grill, prepare hot coals for grilling. Thread about 6 chunks of chicken on each of three metal skewers. Place the skewers on the grill and cook, turning once, for about 6 minutes or until just cooked through. Remove the kabobs from the grill and serve over lightly dressed arugula and grilled tomatoes, or rice, with lemon wedges.

If serving with greens and grilled tomatoes, place three skewers with about 8 cherry tomatoes on each on the grill after you have removed the chicken. Grill the tomatoes, turning a couple of times, until lightly blistered, about 3 – 4 minutes, depending on size of the tomatoes. If they start to burst, remove them from the grill. Dress the arugula with the oil and lemon juice, salt, and pepper, and slide chicken chunks and tomatoes from skewers onto greens. Serve immediately.

Ras-al-hanout Spice Mixture

This vibrant Moroccan spice blend makes an excellent addition to tagines, lamb burgers, kabobs, or roasted chicken. Store in an airtight container.

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon ground ginger

1 teaspoon kosher salt

¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground coriander

½ teaspoon Syrian Aleppo pepper or cayenne

½ teaspoon ground allspice

½ teaspoon ground cloves

Place all ingredients in a clean glass jar and shake well to combine.